Unforgivable me
by Setachan
Summary: AU; Alfred was always a rebellious teenager but he didn't think it would nearly cost him his best friend's life. Sent to a Boys' Academy as punishment, he begins to war with himself, unable to forgive his misdeeds. Angsty. USxCan; uke!USxJapan;


_**Unforgivable Me**_

_Prologue: Burden_

**Author's Note: **I finally managed to get this published. 8D Yay. Not much to say other than it is angsty.  
>It is a AU story so it's based as if the APH characters are not nations. It's mainly overall USxCanada (as in the overall pairing is) but the main pairing in the actual fanction is ukesub!US x Japan. And some one-sided Ivan x Alfred.  
>Yes, it's Angsty and what not and has a lot to do with the psychological aspect of things. It goes back between 1st and 3rd person but if it's in 1st person, it will always be from Alfred's POV.<br>Enjoy the Angst, Drama and Kiku being a dom! 8D  
>And that i actually know where to go! [ Le gasp ]<p>

* * *

><p>I really wish I had listened to Matthew that day. I really wish I had been able to convince myself that what we were about to do was stupid, and insane but I couldn't do it. Had I known at the time what it would cost me in the end, I wouldn't have. Of course, with ignorance and insolence comes stupidity and the desire to rebel. I was hitting that stage of my life hard when I only wanted to make my father angry. All I wanted was for him to pay attention, for better or for worse. Maybe, in a way, I also wanted to prove that I was strong and that I was definitely going to be a way cooler guy than him.<p>

The morning had started out warm and the scent that filled the air for some reason reminded me of Matthew's warm brown-sugar cookies. Delicious with honey and black coffee, I had gotten dressed with my stomach growling. As always I avoided my father, whom was sitting in the kitchen with the newspaper, talking with our cook. After an incident that left his eyebrows burnt, he decided to hire someone who could make edible food. Still, the cook came to know my schedule and without words we'd come to the mutual agreement. So she hadn't bothered to cook, but there was a travel mug of coffee and my lunch on the table by the door. After I pulled on my shoes, I left.

I met up with Matthew on the normal route. Like always, the worrywart had heard the news and he had brought along an umbrella. I had snuck up on the silly boy and he screamed like a sissy. It took an apology and two quarters, but he forgave me and handed me my favorite breakfast. See, Matthew at that time was Matthew Bonnefoy, the son of a Frenchman who was both perverted but a gentleman. He'd learned to cook from his father and so we came to an agreement. He'd cook me breakfast everyday and in return I'd walk him to school. Not that I needed the food to do so. I'm such a hero that I would have walked the poor boy to class even without it!

As we walked, I explained the deal of the day. Meaning how we'd piss off our fathers. In our own way, we'd come to the mutual understanding that this was what we both wanted. His father was better than my dad, so I didn't understand why he seemed okay with this (Okay, he never seemed okay with my plans, but he did go along with me). The deal of the day was supposed to have been simple. That's what I said, but… anyways. We were going to steal one of my dad's cars. We were too young to legally drive (in some countries anyway) and definitely didn't have any experience but I didn't care. It was probably the one time Matthew really tried to talk me out of it.

I wish I had listened.

School went normal as always, with me beating the shit out of some bastard for picking on Matthew. We sat together with a few of our other "friends" and ate lunch, trading various things amongst the group. Though both he and I knew these "friends" were only fair-weather, wanting to be seen as my lackeys so no one would beat up on them. Though it was high-school we had some pretty lame classmates. The evildoers were the worst.

We went back to my place after school. My father – who is Arthus Kirkland, a world renowned author as well as a few other, less interested careers – wasn't home and the cook must have already prepared dinner because she wasn't there either. The maids had come and gone already, and I grabbed the car keys from the bowl by the door. Matthew frowned and once more he began to explain his concerns. I silenced him and we walked to the garage. I opened the door and we got into the car that I had decided was the best choice. My father had started driving lessons with me, so I was knowledgeable about everything and felt at ease. Matty strapped himself in the passenger seat and I backed us out the driveway and began down the street.

If only I had listened. Everything went fine until I sped up on the main drag. I don't remember if I had hit the brake, the gas, or what. I remember colliding with a car that was turning – months later it was explained to me – and then I remember Matty yelling as another car hit the back. I felt glass on my face, tears in my eyes, but I was lucky. When it was all said and done, and the care was beyond repair I looked over at Matty to smile, but it faded.

He was bleeding badly, unconscious and the only thing I could think to do was scream. I struggled against my seatbelt, which apparently had gotten stuck and managed to get out but not soon enough for my liking. The rest is a blur. I remember blood on my hands, screaming, crying. I remember a police officer and being sedated in the hospital.

I remember telling them to call Francis Bonnefoy, but I don't think I told them my father's name.

I woke up in the early hours of the morning and sat up. I looked at my arms and hands, cut up and in some placed stitched. I could feel half my head throbbing and lots of pain in my neck and shoulders. There was a light on beside me and I could hear breathing but I didn't look. Couldn't look. Slowly, I brought my legs to my chest and I tried hard not to cry, at least noticeably. Eventually I felt a hand on mine and looked to the side.

"Daddy… I'm sorry. I'm so so sorry. I just… I didn't mean to…," I choked out. My voice was hoarse, croak-like and it was painful to speak. All I could see in the back of my head was Matthew's unconscious body, his head bleeding, arms cut, so badly damaged.

I think I cried myself to sleep eventually, and I could feel my father rubbing my head all night.

* * *

><p>When morning came I groggily opened my eyes and listened. I kept still, to make them think I was still asleep, but I knew by the voices that I was not getting off easily. In truth, I couldn't imagine being let off easily. Now, I believe that I wanted punished. Those eerie memories, so vague but yet so clear kept surfacing and I tried to drown them, only to have them pull me under as well. I focused all my attention on them – my father and Mister Bonnefoy.<p>

"-in Critical Care. They say if Alfred hadn't been there to hold his shirt on the wound that he wouldn't have lived. The police officer also told me that Alfred was the one to tell them to call me. As glad as I am for that, I just can't let this go this time. My boy may not be able to ever fully recover, Arthur," Francis said quietly, rubbing his head. His voice was cracked, the French accent thicker than normal, at least to me.

"Oiy, I'm aware that this is something in need of more than a grounding. Bloody hell Francis, you don't think I'm upset? Look, I think I'm going to send him off to a private school until he's older. It's a very good, very strict boy's academy. I will not let my son be sent to a correctional facility, however. We both know he didn't mean this," my father muttered, taking a deep breath.

I faded in and out after that. I heard them talking about the academy, and I think Francis mentioned something about me fighting it. However, I had lost my will when he said Matthew might never recover entirely. That just brought me fear. When I was in that hospital bed, I think it was the first time I realized, at least a little, that I loved Matthew. I had to sit up after a while, and the two grew silent as I stared at my cut up arms, fingers wringing.

"Alfred, how long—"

"I'll go," I stated as if it was the end of the conversation. I could hear in the silence their expressions. Confusion, Amazement, maybe a little relief was there also, but I didn't – couldn't – look them in the eyes. I stood and wobbled my way to the door and then out the hall, with people fighting me all the way.

With determination, I willed my voice alive.

"Leave me alone or take me to Matthew, now!"

I think in that one instance, my father and Mister Bonnefoy actually knew – before me – my true feelings and intentions. Francis helped me to the critical care unit and told the nurse to let me in. He waited outside… I don't know how long I was there.

I held his hand, cried, apologized profusely and eventually I thought – for a moment – that he had squeezed my hand as comfort, like he did when we were normally in trouble. When I was in such a bad situation. That action sent my reeling and I think I broke into tears again that lulled me to sleep eventually.

* * *

><p>I was released a day later under strict orders not to go to school or do much extra movement. My father took that opportunity to contact his friend at the school – a man named Kiku Honda I believe – to help me get filled in as soon as possible. Apparently the school was very prestigious and filled with either the more intelligent or the richest boys in the world. It was multicultural to a degree that my roommate might speak very little English. I think my father did me a saving grace by spending the extra money for a single-person dorm room. I listened to him often, and he actually introduced me to Mister Honda via the internet. I didn't think my father knew anything about video calls on the computer.<p>

I spent two weeks at home and called Francis daily, sometimes twice a day, to ask about Matthew. I think whatever hatred he had for me after the accident wavered when I choked on my words and asked. In truth, I think his hatred had slowly fallen by the wayside. I was making it very obvious that Matthew was all I cared about. If I had listened, he wouldn't have nearly died. If I had listened, we wouldn't have been separated. Of course, despite the "what ifs" and the "I should haves," I came to the conclusion that I didn't deserve to be forgiven. Even if my father and Mister Bonnefoy forgave me, and even if our friends did or everyone else, unless Matthew forgave me, I didn't deserve it.

I think I sat with that held over my head for years. No, I know I did. I know that until Matthew and I spoke again – four years later – I would hold what I had done, treat it as the luggage I must carry. I couldn't forgive myself. I couldn't forgive what I had done.

* * *

><p>Mister Honda met us at the airport and walked with us to the jet. At that point in time I was shorter than him. Not by much, but I was. He had dark brown eyes and a clean, even cut. He always wore well pressed clothing, except when he was in the comfort of his own apartment – as I would find out later on. He didn't tend to have large smiles, and mostly they were very hard to notice, hard to see. Though, admittedly, he didn't need to smile to express himself because I knew when I met him that his eyes showed his emotions just fine, or his actions did.<p>

My father and I parted ways and I continued with Mister Honda to the academy's private jet. Luggage was being loaded and a white-blonde haired man, a teacher by the looks of it, was laughing and jabbing fun at a golden-blonde haired boy who… for a moment I thought the person holding onto his arm was a girl. Only for a moment.

"Mister Honda is back, Lud~," The breathy-voice brunette spoke up, and his eyes focused on me after a moment.

He was quick to try and make friends with me, and he actually assumed I wanted to be friends. He was a quick speaking person, though, so sometimes I couldn't actually understand him. I would later find out he was Feliciano Vargas, the grandson of Romulus Vargas who was perhaps the most influential man in the world at the time. I would also later find out that the two blondes were Ludwig and Gilbert and brothers. Ludwig, though taller, was the younger.

Feliciano – Feli – was quick to get me into the jet and introduce me to everyone on board at the stop-over. In one corner there was a large, tall taupey brown haired boy – Ivan. A blonde boy was fawning over a brown-haired one and the brown was frowning, but he didn't seem bothered. They were Felix and Toris. One of the teachers, a Grecian man named Heracles Karpusi was sleeping on a long seat, a cat on his chest. Mister Honda sat beside him as I was guided.

Feli's older twin, Lovino, was grumbling about "that stupid potato bastard," which was his nickname for Ludwig. I was surprised by the few students, but Feliciano explained that picking me up was just a stop-over on the way to the school. They had just had their mid-fall break and were heading back.

It wasn't as long a trip as I thought, but I eventually came to drown out the other boys as I stared out one of the windows. In the end, I pulled the picture of Matthew and I out from my carry-on bag and curled up in my seat. I think Feliciano was going to question me on something when Ludwig stopped him. For most of the trip I was just staring. At the clouds, at the ceiling or at the picture.

Over and Over the memories of Matthew played in my head and it always came back to him bleeding in the car wreck. I was glad when I fell into a deep, dreamless sleep. It was comforting silence and blackness I hadn't had in weeks. I had awakened more times than in my childhood, stricken with nightmares. I slept the night… or day, I don't know. I slept until Mister Honda woke me up and told me we were there.


End file.
